And When He Falleth
by klytaemnestra
Summary: The first Crusade, fever within a desert outpost, and the man who would become Dracula. LeonxMathias yaoi of sorts.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine, obviously. Just playing with them, in a bad way.  
**Historical Notes:** Technically, the First Crusade didn't begin until Assumption Day 1096 at the order of Pope Urban II who had first proposed the concept in late November of the previous year. However, the game seems to slightly disregard this as it is, since it already implied that the Crusades were waging in the East in 1095. Do I look like I really care? No. However, the anal retentive part of me had to clear that up. Of course, there were plenty of knights in the East prior to the Crusades, due to Byzantium and the knights sent from throughout Europe to protect the surrounding lands. Not terribly my area, as I'm more focused the 2nd Crusade and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. Also, the Last Rites performed did not come about until the 12th century. Not, that _Castlevania_ is exactly concerned with being accurate as it is. It's a campy vampire video game series. I doubt anyone's going to smite me for this.

* * *

_And When He Falleth_

Six weeks they had spent here at this godforsaken outpost that even the Saracen armies weren't interested in reclaiming, not that Mathias Cronqvist could blame them as his dark eyes scanned the desert horizon. A Crusade to reclaim the Holy Land they had called it. Better termed a slaughter of innocents, a false travesty under which the Vatican sought to gain more power. Heresy perhaps, but Mathias could care little of that. Illness had struck their camp earlier that week, and twelve men had already succumbed to the strange sickness, while countless others were already beginning to feel its effects. They had come to this foreign land bringing with them the promise of death to those who stood in their way, and now death had come to repay the favour.

Allah's judgement, a Saracen prisoner had said when the first had died. After the third, Mathias had begun to believe it.

Leon was unconvinced, as usual. They were here by order of Pope Urban II, and for that God would protect them. He had been quite adamant in his stand. They were undefeated, the only company to boast such a record. Surely such a thing as a fever could not destroy their army of God.

To this Mathias had scoffed, but upon seeing the hurt it had inflicted in his companion's blue eyes, he had reconsidered, albeit grudgingly. Leon believed that it was their noble right as knights of the Holy Order to bring the kingdom of Jerusalem back to Christian lands. He wished he too could possess such faith, yet he had seen what other knights had done in the name of God. Were there more like Baron Belmont, perhaps they would already be at the shores of Galilee. Instead each day new armies came to the East in search of wealth, power, and glory none of which would save their mortal souls.

Leon had come here because of his devotion to God, and his desire to spread the gospel. Mathias had followed to make sure Leon lived long enough to do so, and thanks to his strategies and Leon's skilled training, they had made it this far unscathed. That was until Leon fell ill a day after the fever took its seventh victim. Leon had insisted that he was fine, and the dizziness he was experiencing was merely from the sun after which he had collapsed just outside Mathias' chambers. He had rushed to his friend's side, already fearing the worst.

'Leon,' he breathed, lifting his comrade from the hard tiled floor and cradling him against his chest as he snapped at a passing page to bring the physician at once. The boy had nodded without hesitation, for a brief moment seeing an unspeakable fury in dark eyes and hurried off fearing what the Count might do if he lost his most treasured friend.

He murmured the name again, brushing slender fingers through wispy blonde. Leon moaned softly in response, golden lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Closing his eyes, Mathias uttered a silent prayer.

He didn't know how many hours had passed as he sat at his friend's side, hands clutching a small rosary given to him by his dear Elisabetha with soft words and a loving smile before leaving on this campaign, eyes red from lack of sleep and perhaps tears. Of those dearest to him, Leon had been the one constant in his life. An honest friend, and brave comrade, and dearest lover. On the nights when Mathias found himself doubting this Crusade, their campaign, and God, Leon was there. A comfort when he was away from his beloved wife who had accepted Leon and found ease in knowing that he would support and comfort her husband. To lose either of them would mean chaos.

The soft sound of footfalls, which seemed to hesitate just beyond the threshold of the bedchamber, broke Mathias from his reverie, and he turned to find a page at the door. The boy gave a nervous bow, 'M'lord, the eighth has died.'

Mathias regarded him coldly, winding the small glass beads around his hand.

'It is true what the Saracen said, Allah—'

'Silence!'

The boy flinched as surely as were he slapped. 'Apologies, M'lord.'

'God will not forsaken us, child.' Came the chiding interruption, a hand resting upon the page's shoulder, as Mathias narrowed eyes upon the lavishly dressed bishop. 'If you will leave us.'

The boy bowed quickly, leaving in a flutter of robes.

'It seems that the infidel's words have made an impression upon your men.' The bishop stated, eyes looking everywhere but on the figure he was speaking to.

'A shrewd observation, your Grace.' Was the tart reply as he watched the bishop move toward the ornate bed, his robes smelling of heavy incense as he passed. To cover the stench of death, Mathias thought, wanting the man away from his knight.

'Has he made confession?'

Mathias could have laughed despite himself. Leon Belmont, the perfect Christian knight. He doubted Leon had done anything so terrible since his last confession as to damn himself to Hell. However, Mathias was hardly laughing, knowing all too well what the bishop meant to imply, dark eyes intent on the bishop's movements as he went to perform _Unctio in Extremis_, hands tracing the sign of the cross over Leon's unusually pale brow.

'_Per istam sanctam unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti, Amen._'

'You will leave him be,' Mathias hissed, rising.

'Lord Cronqvist, it is in God's hands. You cannot save him.'

His hand clutched the crucifix, flared edges biting into his palm, eyes burning once again with underlying fury. 'God?' His jaw twitched. 'Where was God when the others died?'

'Their passing is unfortunate, but it is the will of God.'

'He will not take Leon from me.'

To this, the bishop paused. 'Your rank alone protects you, Lord Cronqvist. To defy God's will is heresy, even in the East.' His tone was not menacingly, only offering a sound reminder. 'I will pray for you and Baron Belmont. He has done much for the Church, may God bless him.'

Mathias watched through a dull haze at the bishop's departure, realizing some moments later how tightly his fist had been clenched, opening his hand to reveal the small crucifix tainted with his own blood. The candles around him flickered, casting his shadow along the wall, writhing, twisting, for the briefest of moments appearing in the form of a dragon, gaping at him as those it would swallow his soul with its darkness. And then he blinked and the image was gone. Shuddering against an inner chill, he knelt once more by Leon's unconscious form, holding a silent, terribly helpless vigil.

It was not until the physician had returned some time later that Mathias had retired to his own chambers with the firm warning that he was not immune to this fever, and that worrying himself to death was not going to improve the already dire situation. He had lingered a while longer, though, arranging the blankets about Leon, and pressing a kiss against a fevered brow before vanishing down the dim corridor.

Alone in his chambers, Mathias learned what darkness his own soul could harbour. Leon, Elisabetha, they were his redemption, and without them he found himself curled on the floor screaming at God. Demanding to know how a God of love could take away one of His most loyal and devout servants. Leon had defended the Truth, his life was the Church and now for God to reward him thus. There was no justice in it that God should hold such power over them. That he alone should be the one capable of granting life or death.

Lifting his head, he looked to the chessboard, its delicately carved pieces still scattered in disarray from a game he and Leon had never finished a few nights ago. Perhaps, that was all life was. A perverted form of chess match in which they were the pawns, while kings and bishops reaped the glory. Closing his eyes he thought of Leon that night. He had been beautiful in the candlelight, a slightly perplexed look upon his face as he watched Mathias' bishop claim his knight. Their hands had brushed just slightly, and Leon had looked up to see dark eyes glittering mischievously. Leon had learned years ago what that look had meant. Promise, passion. They had fallen together moments later, chess match left forgotten as they moved in the oldest of dances toward the bed. Embroidered cloth giving way to deft hands, Leon's parted mouth beneath his own, arms and legs entwined as they fell against the plush pillows and rich fabrics. They had been so alive that night, casting off their daily duties and worries … and now—

Hands despairingly twisted the rosary beads. 'You shall not take from me. I will not allow it. He has served you well, spare him this—' The tears he had long held at bay slipped from beneath dark lashes. 'I cannot bear the loss!' he cried, flinging the rosary across the gleaming tiled floor; burying his head in his hands he wept tears of frustration at his own helplessness. He could save Leon from death on the battlefield with his tactics, but here he was unable to do anything but wait, and pray that God would grant his request—if God would even hear his prayers.

'Why?' he beseeched, slender fingers twisting into dark hair. 'I demand to know why. He has done nothing but serve you. _I_ have done nothing but serve _you_! You will not have him … you will not—'

He thought to Leon lying there so pale, dying as the fever raged on, and he so helpless to save his friend and lover. For a dark moment he tried to imagine a world without Leon Belmont, and found that his heart would break over such a loss, that the unexplainable darkness within his own soul would consume him, and he would be forever lost. The thought terrified him that his own emotions could damn his soul.

'Father, I beg of you.'

Regaining minimal composure and dignity, Mathias rose. Smoothing his robes, he stooped to retrieve the rosary before exiting his chambers. He moved about the corridors as if in a daze ignoring the few acolytes who had not yet retired to bed at this late hour. For a moment he wondered if there would even be a priest to hear his confession, but found it mattered little. If he remained alone with his thoughts outside the presence of God for much longer, he feared he would surely go mad.

The chapel with its rich tapestries and gleaming reliquary was deserted save for one monk who was busily tending to the candles, ensuring that they remain bright throughout these long and increasingly terrible nights.

'Oh holy confessor, hear my sins.'

The monk started a little, eyes questioning as they settled on the tired figure of Count Cronqvist. Circles had formed beneath his red-rimmed eyes, and his usually gleaming dark hair lay unkempt, his demeanour speaking of a man of despair on the brink of losing all faith in his Holy Redeemer.

'Lord Cronqvist.' No sooner had the monk uttered his name did he fall to his knees before the holy man.

'Bless me father, for I have sinned,' he gasped, clutching the dark, coarse fabric of the man's robe.

The monk knelt beside Mathias and smoothed a soothing hand across his shoulder, gently coaxing out whatever words were to come.

'I have had dark and terrible thoughts, father. Thoughts that shall surely damn my soul. I have sought to defy God because he seeks to take away what is most dear to me.'

'Our Holy Father is a great and righteous being, my child. We are not to question His will.'

'Even if there is no justice in it? Even if He seeks to take away a knight who has fought for His glory? Tell me, father, does this sound like a God of love?' Mathias implored, once more finding himself unable to fight the creeping darkness surrounding him.

'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. It is His will.'

'I cannot see it …'

'Then you must look beyond this world to God's divine purpose. Baron Belmont shall be rewarded in death for his service.' The monk counselled, 'Now my child, we must make holy confession.'

Mathias nodded weakly as the monk led them in prayer, asking absolution of their sins, and redemption of their souls. At the mention of Leon's name, he broke down and made a feeble attempt to stand, wanting away from this place, but the monk held fast as Mathias wept. They stayed like this for some time, the monk offering quiet words of wisdom and scripture until Mathias once more found his composure. Lifting his head from the offered shoulder, Mathias kissed the monk's hand in piety for his council, secretly knowing that the darkness within his soul still festered and how he now feared the consequences it might bring.

He once more retired to his chambers, and suffering from mental exhaustion fell against the rich pillows and blankets, twining them about his wearied body in an attempt to block out the world around him. He could not continue this way, he knew. Even if Leon were to die now, he could not lose himself. There was Elisabetha. His dear, sweet, angelic Elisabetha waiting for his safe return. If he were to lose Leon, they would mourn together.

Closing his eyes, he thought of her standing on the parapets, wind tousling her golden locks, smiling brilliantly as she kissed him, and for a brief moment his heart once more knew peace.

He was awakened by the sound of shouting in the corridor. Groaning he twisted the blankets around him trying to muffle the noise trying to hold onto those last lingering moments of sleep but to no avail. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by the blinding midday sun, the events of yesterday flooding back suddenly as real and dire as they had been. He pulled himself from the blankets and dressed, catching a brief glimpse of his distorted reflection in the nearby mirror and brushed his long dark locks away from his face, securing them tightly with a strip of leather. He was still the one that his fellow knights looked to for guidance, and for that reason only he made some attempt at making himself presentable.

The walk to Leon's chambers was tolling upon his fragile reason, and more than once he found himself teetering very close to another emotional outburst. Drawing in a breath and holding it, he entered the bedchamber and was greeted by the sight of several acolytes standing in a semi circle around the bed, chanting softly in Latin. The seemed to pay him no mind as he passed them as in a trance to wrench back the gossamer curtains concealing the bed. He stared at Leon's pale form, listening to his shallow, raspy breaths. A hand stole out to brush lightly along cheek, tracing down along the line of his jaw.

He could remember only one time before in which Leon had been truly ill. It had been during their eleventh year. Leon had taken on a fever, and Mathias had been forbidden by his mother to see the boy. He had devotedly made trips to the manor gardens to call Leon out to the window so they could converse until the time that Leon was well. He had been caught several times by Leon's Nurse and instructed to go home, but he had always returned the following day insisting that Leon must get well so they could go riding together.

He wished it were so easy now, that his childish demands could heal Leon. It had been a decade since then, and Mathias had learned that death was not so uncommon. He witnessed each time on the battlefield, Muslim and Christian alike. It had seemed distant then—always so distant until Death was threatening to steal away his knight.

'M'lord.'

Mathias lifted his eyes toward an acolyte.

'The physician fears that he will not outlast the day. His fever is so great. May God bless his soul.' The man murmured, making the sign of the cross.

Mathias felt his heart skip a beat, and then the sudden pang as though a red-hot dagger had pierced it, tearing it asunder. 'No.' The word was firm, dark eyes narrowing as he seemingly sized up the acolyte.

'M'lord, a thousand condolences, but there is little we may do now. It is in God's hands—'

'God's hands?' Mathias hissed suddenly, pulling the startled acolyte to him, slender fingers wrapping around a pale throat. 'You will tell God then that he cannot have him. Leon is mine.'

'M'lord, I beg of you—' the man choked, a hand attempting to pry away the death grip around his neck as the other acolytes moved cautiously to his aid.

'God will not take him away from me!' He cried before flinging the acolyte away with a seemingly inhuman strength.

The man curled onto the floor, a hand clutching at his throat as he gasped in deep breaths watching as Mathias in turn directed his rage to the remaining men who each frantically scattered to their respective places along the far wall.

'Leon is mine alone. How can you hold such claim when it is _I_ who love Leon?' he challenged the Heavens. 'You will not have him. Not now, not ever!'

The soft sound of his name spoken by familiar lips broke him from his madness, calming the tempest in his soul, and he turned eyes to gaze upon Leon.

Blue eyes shone dully, as pale lips once more formed the name. 'Mathias…'

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, taking Leon's hand in his own. 'Leon,' he breathed, stroking his hand through soft strands as he fought against the tears that threatened to fall. 'My Leon.'

He managed a weak smile, exhaling a soft sigh. 'Pray for me, Mathias. That God will spare me this.'

Mathias nodded. 'I shall.' And pressed a kiss to Leon's brow as those eyes once more fell closed. He sat there for several long minutes contemplating his actions, listening to the soft flutter of fabric as the acolytes quietly took their leave.

'Forgive me—' he choked burying his face in the soft blankets surrounding Leon, and wept.

On the third day, Leon's fever broke and the entire company seemed to breath a sigh of relief. Mathias had remained by his side throughout the ordeal, praying for Leon's recovery and his own soul.

Though still weak from his illness, Leon had insisted that he return to his regular duties, and with the physician's clearance Leon was permitted to stroll the walls to oversee his men.

'It puts everything in perspective, I think. How God tests us in such ways as coping with loss.' Leon stated eyes watching the evening sun as it dipped below the darkening horizon. 'I thank you, Mathias for believing in his goodness.'

Silence stretched taut between them as Mathias turned the words over in his head. He prayed Leon would never know the truth of what had transpired that first terrible day. It would destroy him, and what faith and love he held for Mathias. If God was goodness, then he would never have to show that dark side of his soul to Leon.

Closing his eyes, Mathias thought on the news he had just recently received, news he had not yet shared with even Leon. They were being called home at long last.

Then all would be at peace.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
